In primary school I wanted to shave my head and become a Buddhist

Because everything I do, love, touch gets wiped clean

Like my very fingertips

Are mandalas.

My words are sand in my dry throat:

Skin cells of some ancient stone-paintings sung from people’s lungs

Into and from generations of lips.

I’m trying not to swallow your kisses

And hoard them at the pit of me like an hourglass

But I don’t know how to love like a mantra;

I can’t spread my ribcage around an Aum,

And let all the sand from my lungs.

Just breathe.

Let it all pass.

It feels too easy

To sit cross-legged in an attic

A guided mindfulness meditation playing

Over the rain thundering against the roof

And just breathe, to acknowledge and feel it

And nothing more.

Do you know what would be truer?

To charge out into that storm like a child

To kiss every rain-water fleshed body

Thrown from the sky

To let the cloud’s suicide hit into your open arms

And soak through your pours.

We are made like sieves

I don’t think that means

We have to let everything simply

Drain through us.

I want to hold what I can


So tell me these feelings are just weather:

I’m the sky.

I feel as blue in the face with loving

As the sky sometimes

(For all the clouds I couldn’t keep).

There are more stars up there

Than sand on all of our beaches.

Each breath feels like the death of a solar system,

Each time I turn a light-switch on my ears swell with the sound of ice melting

Each wrong word, missed phone call- a friend’s new scar, or trip to the hospital.

I am full of black holes.

Just because you get sucked into one

Does not mean I didn’t want to hold you

It just meant you resulted in too much blood/vomit swirled down a sink.

There are places in me where I can hold nothing.

I think this is why I distrust acceptance

Why I can’t open myself out like an Om

On a Yoga mat and reassemble the bones

Of my past into an explanation.

There’s not just me to lose,

I’m heavy with universes full of life forms

That don’t look up to the sky like I did

And see gravity dropping the stars

Like people off buildings.


How long do you think it took Atlas to figure out

The Earth didn’t need him to hold them up?

How drained and bruised did he let himself become

Before he


Lifted it from his shoulders

And slowly

Let his great hands

Slip from its orbit?

How long did he have to sit and watch it

Hang on its own fragile strings of existence,

Before he convinced himself

He could walk away

And leave it to Entropy?



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